Who Is My Shelter? (18 page)

And Philip. Jodi had encouraged me to pray
for
Philip, not just
about
him.

Oh God
, I groaned.
I don't really know how to pray for Philip right now. His injuries seem to be healing—thank You, God, for that. And Fagan is out of the picture, I hope. But as far as I know, Philip's still got all that gambling debt hanging over his head and the threat of a lawsuit from Henry Fenchel. Just . . . please, God, help him get his act together. For P.J.'s and Paul's sakes, if nothing else. And—

My prayer stopped short. I still hadn't responded to Philip's tearful plea in the hospital to forgive him. It was hard to know how to pray about it. He hadn't brought it up again. Was he waiting for an answer? Or had he forgotten that he'd asked for my forgiveness? Maybe it was just the trauma of the moment.

Oh God, what do you want me to do? I don't even know how I feel about Philip right now—

A knock at my front door jerked me out of my thought-prayers. I peeked out the sunroom windows but didn't see Lee's Prius.
Silly
, I scolded myself on the way to the door. I'd hear the buzzer if it was Lee.

Zia Bassi stood in the hallway, Josh Baxter behind her. “I'm all moved out, Mrs. Fairbanks, thanks to the help of Josh here,” the young woman said. “Do you want to do an inspection so I can get my deposit back?”

“Now? Uh . . . all right. Be up in a minute. Josh, can I see you a sec?”

When Zia had run back up the stairs, I pulled Josh into my apartment. “I have no idea what to look for! Do you have a list or something?”

“Should be with the rental contract.”

Which was precisely where it was. Good grief, I was such an amateur at building ownership! But together Josh and I took a tour of 2A, which seemed in remarkably good condition to me. All kitchen appliances accounted for and clean—check. No broken fixtures or mirrors in the bathroom—check. Blinds still in decent condition—check. The only “damage” was a few scratches on the wood floor in the bedrooms and living room from moving furniture and small holes in the walls where pictures had hung. Josh eyed me whether I wanted to deduct anything for that, but I gave a brief shake of my head.

“Seems in good order, Ms. Bassi. If you'll give me your new address, I'll mail your deposit back first thing Monday.” The security deposits for remaining tenants had been included in the final deal with the former owner.

Zia's face fell. “Uh, I was hoping I could have my deposit back today. I really need the money.”

I saw Josh give a slight shake of his head. The rental contract said the landlord had thirty days to return the deposit. “I'm sorry.”
Keep it professional, Gabby
. “I'll be sure to get it in the mail first thing Monday.” Even that would be doing her a favor.

Once Zia was gone, Josh and I talked a good while about what needed to be done to prepare the apartment for the next House of Hope residents—mostly spackling those holes, a coat of varnish on the wood floors, and painting the walls in all the rooms. I was going with neutral colors this time. Letting Precious and Tanya pick their colors had been too much of a headache.

“That's your buzzer, I think,” Josh said, poking his head into the kitchen pantry and testing which shelves might need replacing.

Buzzer
. I ran down the stairs but didn't recognize the stocky man in jeans and sweatshirt out in the foyer. “Fairbanks? Apartment 1B?” he said when I pulled open the glass-paneled door. “Got a delivery. Where do you want it?”

“Uh . . . what is it?” He had a clipboard. No flowers. A truck stood out by the curb that said
E-Z MOVERS
along the side.

The man was already halfway out the front door. “Table and chairs. We'll bring them in. Just tell us where you want them.”

My mouth hung open. I hadn't ordered any table and chairs, though I kept meaning to. But a few minutes later two men came in carrying a large flat piece of furniture between them, not in a box, but wrapped and strapped in movers blankets. Still perplexed, I led them down the hall to the dining room. The legs came next, each wrapped individually in a blanket. Then chairs—eight of them, wrapped in bubble wrap.

I recognized the chairs even before the blankets came off the table.

The Belfort Signature dining room set from the penthouse.

The two men—obviously local movers-for-hire—removed their straps and blankets, asked me to sign the form on the clipboard, and were gone.

An envelope was taped to the underside of the table. With shaking fingers, I took out a simple note card.
“Happy Birthday, Gabby
” it said on the outside. On the inside, in Philip's distinctive script, I read,
“You need this more than I do. Whatever happens between us, it's yours
.” It was signed,
“Philip
.”

chapter 17

I simply stared at the gleaming mahogany tabletop leaning against the wall. The table and chairs had beautiful lines, decorated with vine-and-leaf scrolls and claw feet. The chair backs were softly curved, the seats padded with patterned gold velour. The dining set seemed far too elegant for the other furniture in my patched-together apartment, but that wasn't what astonished me.

Philip had sent me
our table
from the penthouse. As a gift. A birthday gift. He knew I needed a table and sent this one, leaving the dining room in the penthouse empty.

What did it mean? I hardly knew what to think!

Josh Baxter came down with his tools, bolted the curved, hand-carved legs onto the table, and helped me set it in place. Then he graciously took my make-do table—the sheet of plywood and sawhorses that had been hiding under one of my mother's tablecloths— down to the basement, never asking a single question.

The telephone rang at noon. Both of my sisters were on the line, warbling an off-key version of “Happy Birthday” and making jokes about being “forty and fit” or “forty and fat,” which was it? I let them prattle and didn't tell them about the table, knowing I'd get an earful of disparate opinions—Celeste's no-nonsense, practical Alaskan self usually took hot issue with Honor's airy, California-dreaming flights of fancy.

I didn't need that right now.

Saved by the buzzer. “Gotta go! Someone at the door! Love you both!” I smooched kisses into the phone as I hung up and scrunched my curls into a semblance of good behavior before dashing out into the hall.

Lee Boyer stood on the other side of the glass-paneled door with—a bicycle?

“Happy birthday, Gabby!” He grinned as I pulled open the door. He was wearing biking shorts, a lightweight white-and-blue windbreaker, and sunglasses, his hand resting lightly on the handlebars of a sleek, red women's hybrid bike. A wide, white ribbon had been tied into a bow on the narrow padded seat.

“What?” I laughed. “What's this?”

“Hm. Seem to remember you made a big deal of getting the boys' bikes from Virginia so you could ride the bike trails along the lakefront, but you don't have one of your own. So now you do!”

I lusted after that bicycle. It was everything I'd ever wanted in a bike—trim lines, flat handlebars, multiple gears, and candy-apple red. Even a neat leather pouch behind the seat to hold stuff.

But I slowly shook my head. “I . . . can't accept it, Lee. It's too much. You and me, we're not . . . you know.”

“Now wait a minute, Gabby Fairbanks. Can I come in? Or are you going to make me stand here in the foyer like the mailman?”

I reddened. “Sorry. Of course. Come in.” I led the way into the living room of my apartment and sank into my mother's rocker. Lee followed, wheeling the bike inside.

“Now look,” he protested. “First off, I didn't spend any money on this bike. It belonged to my sister, who thought she was going to take up cycling. Then she got married to a New York actor and left town. She gave the bike to me and told me I could do ‘whatever' with it. That was three years ago! It's just been taking up room in my storage locker. Might as well get used.”

“Still—”

“Okay, Miss Stubborn. Consider it a loan then. You need a bike. The bike needs a rider. Seems like a match made in heaven, if you ask me.”

I relented with a smile. “All right. A loan. Thanks, Lee. It's very sweet of you to think of me for your sister's bike.”

He'd taken off his sunglasses and replaced them with his usual wire rims. His voice got gentle. “Think of you? Gabby, I think of you all the ti—”

“Don't. Please.” I held up a hand. For some reason my emotions felt all in a jumble and I was afraid I might cry any moment. “Not now.”

He backed up. “All right. Would you like to take a spin? I've got my bike on the car.”

I peeked out the sunroom windows. Sure enough, another bike was mounted on a bike rack on the back of Lee's Prius.

“But I don't have a helmet—”

“Comes with the bike. Used to be my sister's, remember? It's in the car.”

I'd run out of excuses. The boys wouldn't be home till five at least. “Well . . . all right. Sure, I'd like that. I'll get my jacket.”

The lakefront was less than a mile away, but I wasn't eager to ride city streets until I got used to the bike with its zillion possible gears, so Lee put it back on the bike rack and drove to an accessible point. But once on the bike trail that wound its way through Lincoln Park, I soon found a comfortable gear and relaxed, following Lee's windbreaker as he dodged dog-walkers, couples out for a stroll, and runners plugged into their iPods who stubbornly ran on the bike trail instead of the jogging path.

With temps in the fifties and low-hanging clouds covering the sun, I was glad I'd layered up under my windbreaker and worn my jeans. Even then my ears and nose still got nippy.

We rode south as far as the Lincoln Park Zoo, where I called out to Lee to turn around. “Guess I'm out of condition,” I gasped, laughing and pulling off the path.

Lee rode a few circles around me. “Yeah, sometimes I forget to go only as far as a decent halfway point, because you always have to ride back the same distance!” He nodded toward a nearby bench. “Want to rest awhile before heading back?”

I shook my head. “I'm good.” I could've used a break, but resting would mean conversation, and conversation might lead to talking about
us
. Frankly, I'd been grateful for the single-file bike ride that left me alone with my thoughts and confused emotions. Here I was out again with the man who'd said,
“I love you, don't you know that?”
just before he'd given me an ultimatum: leave Philip's hospital bedside or call it quits. I wheeled my bike onto the path. “I should get home. It's getting colder too.”

Forty-five minutes later we pulled up in front of the six-flat and Lee unloaded the red bicycle. “Thanks, Lee. The ride was fun.” More than fun. I loved it. But what now? He started to walk the bike up to the door, but I said, “Oh, that's okay, I can get it inside.” I gave him a grateful smile—but I was walking a tightrope here. A month ago I would have thrown my arms around him and given him a big hug. Instead I said, “I really appreciate you loaning me your sister's bike. The helmet too. I promise to take good care of them.”

Lee caught my messages: I wasn't inviting him in, and I was accepting the bike as a loan, not a gift.

“Sure.” For a moment he seemed at a loss for words. “Uh, you should probably get a good lock for that before you go for another ride.” I could feel his eyes on my back as I wheeled the bike up the walk, carried it up the steps, and pushed open the outside door. Then he called after me, “Happy birthday, Gabby! Maybe we can do this again—”

A distant rumble of thunder caught away his last words. I gave him a final wave. “Looks like we got back just in time! Thanks again!”

Just in time
was right. For a second there, I'd been ready to take it all back, invite him inside, tell him I loved his birthday gift, tell him . . . what?

Once inside the foyer I fumbled with my keys. Where was I going to keep the bike? I didn't want to put it in the basement until I got a good lock. Finally unlocking my apartment door, I pushed it open with the front wheel—and nearly fell over when the door suddenly swung wide.

“Happy birthday, Mom!” P.J., Paul, and Philip stood just inside, grins plastered on all three faces. Philip's arm was still in its cast, but the bruises on his face had faded to a pasty yellow, and his dark hair was starting to grow over the long scar on his skull.

“Wha—what are you guys doing here already?” Had they seen me drive up with Lee Boyer? I busied myself taking off the bike helmet, feeling my face flush.

The boys talked at the same time. “We wanted to celebrate your birthday!” . . . “Did you like Dad's surprise?” . . . “Come see what we got you!” . . . “Where'd you get the bike? Is it yours?”